Gospel Story Finder

While we lived in South America, our eldest son reached the age to fill a mission. He was the first missionary to leave our little branch composed mainly of converts. The closing prayer at his farewell was offered by one of the new converts. He expressed this thought: “Heavenly Father, we have seen missionaries come. They have blessed our lives. Now we see that we must send missionaries. Help us to rear our sons to serve.”
That prayer of faith was answered. When that man’s son was nineteen, he was called to go to Italy. I received this note about him from the president of the branch where he labored.
“We have known Elder LaBuonora since he arrived six months ago. … In the short time he has been here he has baptized nine people.
“Because you knew him before, I share a little experience. We were visiting one of our sick members in the hospital. … In the ward of about twenty people, there was a three-year-old boy whose mother had abandoned him when he was born. He has had no one to love him. The child was playing in his crib and needed his nose wiped. So Elder LaBuonora wiped his nose with the tenderness of a real father, held him in his arms for a minute, kissed him, and put him gently back in bed. The expression on the child’s face was a mixture of surprise and security. We believe this young man is the greatest missionary we have seen. What a blessing he is to our mission and branch.”
It is a further evidence of faith to note that President LaBuonora, the father who prayed that they could rear their sons to serve, has since sent his second son into the mission field.

Carla Martinez, a young adult in Buenos Aires, Argentina, felt invisible in her new ward. She didn’t know the members. Carla had moved many times with her family, and life was not always easy for them. But then a sister in the ward started to develop a friendship with her.
“Aldana made me a birthday cake and decorated the humble room where my parents and I lived,” says Carla. “She gave me the best present I could get—her sincere love.”

A few months later, on the morning of the festival, the wards of the stake were busy practicing their skits and working on their booths. Inside the stake center a young man in blue jeans and a Civil War coat wandered by toward the stage where Abraham Lincoln was being fitted for his tall black cardboard hat. The great emancipator was wearing a cast, having recently broken his leg, and would have to lead his people through the Civil War in that condition.
It was a bright, sunny day in the San Fernando Valley, without a hint of smog. The weatherman had predicted rain; the young people and their leaders had prayed for good weather. The weatherman was a good meteorologist, but he was simply out of his league.

On Thursday afternoon, my family and I were celebrating my child’s birthday at a rather loud and noisy gathering in our home when the phone rang. A woman’s voice said, “Brother Monte Brough, would you hold the phone a moment? President Hinckley would like to speak with you.”
I said, “President Hinckley!” in order to gain some attention from my rather raucous family. They quieted rather quickly, I can tell you.
President Hinckley came on the phone and said, “Brother Brough, would it be convenient for you to come and see me?”
In a rather stilted way, I responded for a moment or two to a couple of questions, then said, “President Hinckley, you have given me a rather frightening phone call.”
He said, “Oh, don’t worry about it. We’re just going to give you a new broom and let you sweep the steps in front of the office building.”
President Hinckley, I want you and these Brethren to know that I would be honored to take up that broom and sweep those steps where you have walked, where President Benson has walked, and where all these men whom I admire and love with all my heart have walked.

“Hi. You’re new here, aren’t you?” asked Carl.
“Yup,” Tony answered.
“Where did you go to school before?”
“Lincoln.”
“Lincoln Elementary? Across town?”
“Nope. Lincoln, Nebraska,” replied Tony.
“Oh. I was in Nebraska once, but I was just a kid, so I don’t remember much about it. You like it here?”
“It’s all right.”
“What did you do at recess in Lincoln?” Carl asked.
“Well … we played marbles.”
“Marbles! Terrific! Are you any good?” probed Carl.
“OK, I guess,” Tony answered modestly. “Do you play?”
“Not much. Mostly I play kickball. You’ll have to meet Marvin.”
“Marvin?”
“Marvin the Marble Marvel,” Carl explained.
“Is he any good?”
“Is he any good! That’s like asking if ice is cold. That’s him, over there,” said Carl, pointing across the playground.
“What grade’s he in, first?”
“No, third—like us.”
“He sure doesn’t look like a third grader. He’s so little,” Tony declared.
“I know,” agreed Carl. “But that doesn’t stop him. He’s the best marble player in the whole school. I can’t remember anyone ever beating him. Want to meet him?”
“Yup.”
Carl and Tony walked over to Marvin, and Carl introduced him to Tony.
“Hi!” Marvin said, grinning and pushing up his glasses. “Want to play?”
“I didn’t bring my marbles,” Tony answered.
“That’s OK,” Carl said generously, handing Tony a marble. “I’ll lend you Orangy.”
“Let’s play lag-outs,” Marvin suggested.
“OK,” Tony agreed, “but no snudging.”
“What’s snudging?”
“That means that your knuckles stay on the ground when you shoot,” explained Tony.
“Oh,” said Marvin. “It doesn’t matter. I shoot flingies.”
“Flingies?” asked Tony.
“Sure. Like this,” said Marvin, snapping the marble forward with his thumb and index finger.
“Oh, snappers,” Tony replied.
“Whatever,” Marvin said, “Hurry—the bell’s about to ring. We’ll play funsies. You shoot first.”
“OK. Thanks.” Tony shot his marble.
“We play no hits on first tries,” explained Marvin, rolling a green marble in the opposite direction. “Your turn.”
Tony aimed his marble carefully. An audible click was heard as Orangy collided with Marvin’s marble.
“Wow!” exclaimed Carl. “What a shot!”
“Good hit,” complimented Marvin, handing Tony his marble.
“You said funsies,” reminded Tony, giving both marbles back to their owners. “I’ll bring my marbles tomorrow.”
By the next morning the whole school knew about Tony’s fantastic shot. Carl met Tony on the way out to recess. “Did you bring your marbles?” he questioned.
“Yup.” Tony held up a bulging brown leather bag.
“Good. That looks like enough. Sometimes Marvin likes to play undergrounds.”
“Undergrounds? You mean pots?” asked Tony.
“I guess, Don’t let Marvin fool you,” warned Carl.
“How?”
“Well, he doesn’t look or act like a marble champ.”
“What do you mean?” Tony asked.
“He brings the same marble to school every day,” confided Carl.
“Only one?”
“That’s right,” Carl replied. “He brings it in a sandwich bag, and every afternoon he goes home with a bagful of marbles that he’s won.”
“You’re joking,” Tony challenged.
“No. Honest. I’ve always wondered what he does with the marbles he wins.”
“He must have a closetful at home,” Tony said as they approached Marvin and a couple of his friends.
“Hi. Ready to play?” asked Marvin, pulling a sandwich bag containing just one marble out of his pocket.
Carl gave Tony an “I told you so” nudge as some of the other kids came over to watch the game.
“Same rules as yesterday,” Marvin announced.
“OK,” Tony agreed, “but no go-fors.”
“Gophers?” Marvin repeated.
“Go-fors.”
“What does that mean?”
“No one else can shoot for you,” Tony explained.
“Oh—no helpers. OK. Come on, Sunshine,” Marvin pleaded, rolling his shiny yellow cat’s-eye marble between his thumb and forefinger.
Tony wisely shot his blue marble some distance away from Marvin. But when Marvin shot his marble, it stopped just short of Tony’s. On the next shot Tony easily won the cat’s-eye.
“Good game,” said Tony as Marvin handed him Sunshine. “You’ll have to bring more marbles tomorrow.”
“I don’t have any more marbles,” replied Marvin quietly.
“What?” Carl protested. “How can that be? You’ve won hundreds.”
“Well … I …” Marvin hesitated.
“He always gives them back the next day,” Jenny, an on-looker, broke in. “I’m sorry, Marvin. I had to tell.”
“That’s OK,” Marvin mumbled, staring at the ground.
“You mean that you’ve been winning the same marbles over and over again?” Carl asked incredulously.
“Well, yeah,” admitted Marvin. “You see, I found Sunshine on my way home from school one day, and I’ve just always won. I give the marbles back so that everyone will keep playing with me.”
“You’re good, Marvin,” Tony said, handing Sunshine back to him.
“You won it,” Marvin insisted. “You can keep it.”
“We said we’d play the same rules as yesterday,” Tony reminded him. “We were playing funsies yesterday, remember?”
“That’s right!” Marvin replied, happily tucking Sunshine into his pocket.

From a missionary I received an unforgettable letter. He wrote: “I still am not certain why it was that I was [afflicted] with [cancer], particularly during the time I was serving the Lord on a mission, but I can say with all honesty and sincerity that I am eternally grateful to our gracious Heavenly Father for allowing me to have that experience. … Not a day goes by,” he continued, “that I don’t think about the days I spent lying in the hospital suffering through chemotherapy or grimacing with the pain from another operation. … Not a day … passes when I don’t think of the days I spent studying the scriptures, particularly the Book of Mormon, and remembering the overwhelming feelings of comfort and peace which I felt. I often think of the nights when I would retire to bed and pour out my soul to my Heavenly Father and thank Him for preserving my life.” Then the elder shared this wonderful news: “I returned to the doctor this week … and … he found no evidence of any disease in my body.” I love such faithful missionaries!

“But the teacher I remember best was Sister Call. She was just a jewel. I remember how impressed I was that she was willing to go on hikes with the Trail Builders. She’d plan scavenger hunts, but they were not just the regular kind. Each one would have a connection with some part of the lesson. As we would find each thing, it would teach us another part of the lesson. Then there was always a nice reward—some special treat at the end. I can’t believe the creative ways she used to keep our attention as young boys.
“Sister Call is a person who keeps on giving. Recently I received a phone call from her son. He wanted to bring a gift Sister Call had just completed for me. He brought to my office a beautiful quilt she had made. Thousands of careful stitches prepared in a beautiful pattern. She is ninety-one years young. I could not hold back a tear as I thought of the kindness of this great teacher.”

Until the white man came and explained that he was a collector of fossils, agates, and semiprecious stones for an eastern museum, Black Otter had not realized that these colorful rocks might have value. The man laid out many rock specimens to show the various stones he was seeking. “I have not come to cheat you,” he said. “These samples are not as valuable as diamonds and rubies, but I have brought brass and iron pots, good hunting knives, and metal fishhooks to trade.”

The man looked disappointed when nothing was offered. The tribe was very poor. The people wore many necklaces but they were fashioned of drilled bone, claws, or hard seeds, not colorful stones. The specimen hunter saw how the Indians admired the trade goods when he began to pack up. Their fishhooks were thick bone ones that allowed many fish to escape. Now he selected a large and small metal fishhook for each brave and presented them as gifts.

Black Otter had stayed back in the crowd, timid about approaching the white man. But he had watched his mother’s eyes that kept returning to the largest cooking pot. It was made of black iron with legs and a hook for hanging over a fire. Hesitantly, he stepped forward and laid the smallest of his three rocks near a similar specimen. Black Otter’s rock was clearer and gave off more colors in the sunlight.

The man examined the stone, then he smiled and offered a skinning knife and a small mound of fishhooks in trade. His smile faded and he sighed regretfully when Black Otter pointed to the iron pot. “I’m sorry, but your crystal is not worth that much,” he said. The youth felt that the man was being honest. He obviously wanted the rock.

The white man caught his breath when the Indian boy pulled out the two larger stones. When the deal was finished, Black Otter owned the pot, a razor-sharp hatchet, two fine knives, one for hunting and the other with many blades that folded into the handle, and a mound of fishhooks. Such sudden wealth stunned his parents. They’d never expected to own such things.

Black Otter was disturbed by the envious looks on the faces of his tribesmen. The youth did not want envy to set his family apart from the rest of the tribe. The price of jealousy could mean the loss of their friendship. “If I bring many stones, will you return with tools and utensils for all my people?” Black Otter quietly asked. The man agreed to return with a larger supply of trade goods, and so the youth had set out to search for the beautiful cavern.

Claire was a sad hippopotamus, for today was the day of the jungle talent show. All of Claire’s jungle friends were going to be in it—but not Claire. Claire had no special talent. She didn’t dance. She didn’t sing. She didn’t juggle fruits, do somersaults, or play the drums. And she didn’t know any funny stories to tell. She was just a plain, ordinary hippopotamus.
“Oh, coconuts,” Claire sighed. “There must be something I can do.”
Then Claire had an idea. She went to visit Madame Gazelle’s Dancing School. “Will you teach me to dance?” Claire asked.
“I’ll try,” replied Madame Gazelle.
Claire put on a pair of pink dancing shoes. She learned to turn and curtsey. She leaped gracefully into the air. But when Claire landed, the jungle shook. Monkeys and bananas rained from the trees, mice bounced high into the sky, and everyone complained about the shaking jungle.
Claire did not want to make her friends angry, so she gave up dancing. She went to see Hester Elephant, who was famous for her singing. “Can you teach me to sing?” Claire asked.
“Of course I can,” Hester answered.
“Listen.” She raised her trunk and sang “Mary had a little elephant …” She had a lovely voice. “Now it’s your turn,” said Hester.
Claire roared, “Mary had a little hippopotamus …” as loud as she could. Her jungle friends had to cover their ears. She scared Lonnie Python right out of his tree house.
“This will never do!” Hester cried.
So Claire went to see the Great Chimpanzees. They had the best trapeze act in the jungle. “Please teach me to swing from tree to tree,” begged Claire.
“Sure,” agreed Bimbo Chimpanzee.
“But first you must climb a tree like this.” He scurried to the top of a tall tree and waved to Claire. Claire struggled up the tree after Bimbo. The tree began to bend.
“TIMBER!” shouted the Great Chimpanzees who were on the ground. The tree and Claire and Bimbo fell with a crash. The Great Chimpanzees were happy that Claire did not fall on them. But Claire was not happy at all.
“I’ll never be a part of the show,” she cried.
“I’ll teach you to catch rings on your nose,” offered Walter Rhinoceros.
“But I don’t have a horn like you do,” Claire protested.
“Oh,” said Walter, “I forgot.”
“I’ll teach you to juggle rocks,” suggested Randy Baboon.
“Wonderful!” said Claire. She tossed two rocks into the air.
“Ouch!” They hit Randy on top of his head. He went home to have it mended.
“I know a funny joke,” laughed Smiley Hyena, “but I need it for the show. I wish I had another one for you, Claire.”
Tara Tiger tried to teach Claire to play a harmonica. But Claire swallowed it by mistake.
“Who needs a talent show anyway?” she said crossly. “I’m going swimming.” All afternoon Claire swam around the lake. When she was tired, she took a long, long nap in the water. Voices woke her up.
“Claire! Claire!” the voices called.
Claire opened her eyes. Her jungle friends stood on the shore. They were wearing their talent show costumes.
“Claire!” called Madame Gazelle. “We need you.”
“Me?” said Claire. She swam to shore.
“We have a terrible problem,” said Hester. “You are the only one who can help.”
“What can I do?” sighed Claire.
“Because we’re all in the show,” Bimbo explained, “there’s no one to watch us. So we have no judge to choose the winner.”
“Oh, I can do that!” cried Claire. So Claire sat in the very first row. She clapped as loud as she could. She cheered. She whistled and stamped her feet. “Hooray! Bravo! Encore!” she shouted. “More! More! More!”
When the show was over, Claire clapped so long that everyone took ten bows. “You were all so good,” said Claire, “I can’t decide who the winner is—”
“The winner,” announced Tara Tiger, “is Claire Hippopotamus.”
“Me!” exclaimed Claire. “I wasn’t part of the show.”
“Yes, you were,” said Lonnie Python.
“You were the best audience a talent show ever had.”
Everyone clapped for Claire. She made a curtsey. Then she took her prize, a basket of fruit and went home—a happy hippopotamus.

My missionary companion and I were having difficulty getting along well together. I still do not know all that lay at the root of our difficulties, but after we had been together only a few weeks, walking the streets of a small Brazilian town, resentment, pride, and petty differences began to darken our relationship. Our prayers together became more and more perfunctory, and resentment more and more frequently broke out in sharp words. Almost unnoticed, the Spirit began to slip away from us.
One afternoon, after one of many unfruitful days of tracting and visiting members, and with what promised to be a barren afternoon stretching before us, we decided that we could fill some of the empty spaces on our daily activity records by visiting Antonio. Antonio was a non-member whose wife had joined the Church several years before but had been only marginalIv active. He respected the missionaries and several times had shown sufficient faith to ask them to administer to him when he was ill. My present companion and I had administered to him twice, and I knew that earlier elders had done so. All of that took place before we learned that Antonio was dying of an abdominal cancer and had only a few months, perhaps weeks, to live.
When his wife answered the door that day, she looked drawn and worried. She took us into her kitchen, from which an open door led to Antonio’s room. Through the door we saw Antonio threshing in agony on a narrow bed, unconscious that we were even there.
We were suddenly at a complete loss for what to do or say. Antonio’s wife looked at us silently. We looked at each other, at Antonio, at the floor. We had no idea what to do, and worse, without a word being spoken between us, we knew that we were both thinking that we were in no spiritual condition to do anything. Finally, one of us asked if there was a room where we could be alone for a while. Antonio’s wife showed us to a bedroom, and we closed the door behind us.
We knelt and took turns praying, at first asking the Lord to make known to us his will concerning Antonio. In the silence that answered our first prayers, the knowledge of our unworthiness to receive an answer fairly shouted at us. Then, at first awkwardly and cautiously, and finally pleadingly, we began to confess to the Lord and to each other our sin in allowing vanity and pride to rob us of the power to use our priesthood. We pleaded that Antonio not be denied release from his suffering because of our unworthiness, that the Lord would forgive our sin and bless us with faith and power to bless Antonio, or that he would bless Antonio without us.
We must have prayed for half an hour, taking turns, before a peace came to us. We agreed that we should go out, lay our hands on Antonio, and let the Spirit guide us.
When we went out, his wife asked, “Did you pray?” We said yes, and she said, “He has gone to sleep.”
We left the house subdued and chastened. Permanently and profoundly recorded in our hearts was a hard-learned lesson in the foolishness of allowing personal differences to cut us off from the source of the power to bless.

Before Christmas my parents bought a box full of copies of the Book of Mormon to give to people. That was when I had the idea to take some to school and give them as presents to three of my teachers.
When I got to the music classroom, I saw my music teacher and thought, Go ahead, Sophia. Give one to her! I walked slowly up to my teacher. But I didn’t have the courage to give her the book.
I went to a corner of the room and prayed very quietly. “Heavenly Father, I ask Thee to help me give this book to my teacher.” When I finished my prayer, I felt very strongly that I should give the book to her. Suddenly I had courage.
I went up to her. She looked at me, and I gave her the Book of Mormon and said, “Teacher, I love you from the bottom of my heart, and I want to give you this Book of Mormon!”
She took it and looked at the cover. “Look inside!” I said. She saw that I had written a few words.
She hugged me and said, “Oh, Sophia, thank you for giving this to me!”
After I sat down, she said to the class, “Look what Sophia gave me. I am going to read it during the holidays!”
When I got home, I ran to my mother and said, “Guess what! I gave my teacher a Book of Mormon.”
She smiled and said, “That’s wonderful! You’re a great example to me, Sophia.”
We decided to pray to thank Heavenly Father for giving me the courage to give my teacher the Book of Mormon.

When I was a boy, my mother had to go to work at Garfield Smelter and work like a man to help support the seven children. She worked the graveyard shift as much as she could, I’m sure to be with us during the day. I don’t know when the poor woman slept. One Saturday morning, she got off work about 7:00 or 8:00 a.m. She went to bed for a couple of hours and then got up. She had invited all her relatives to dinner. There must have been 35 or 40. She decorated the tables and arranged the chairs and put all the dishes and silverware out. She cooked and baked all day long. The dirty pots and pans and dishes stacked up.

Everyone came to dinner, and after dinner all the dirty dishes were brought into the kitchen. The food was cleared and stacked on the table and cupboards; then the kitchen door was closed and the family began to visit. It was about 8:00 p.m.

I remember standing all alone in the kitchen. In my young mind, I thought: “My mother worked all night; she has worked all day to get this dinner. When everyone leaves, she will have to do the dishes and put the food away. It will take two or three hours, and that’s not fair.” Then I thought, “I will do them.”

I washed the dishes, did the silverware, the glassware. We didn’t have an electric dishwasher; ours was a manual dishwasher, and that night I was manual. I used a half-dozen dish towels. I was drenched from head to foot. I put the food away, cleaned off the table and drainboards; then I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed the floor. When I was finished, I thought the kitchen was immaculate. It took about three hours.

Then I heard the chairs shuffling, and everyone left. The front door closed, and I heard my mother coming to the kitchen. I was pleased and thought she would be. The door swung open, and even at the age of 11, I recognized that she was startled. She looked around the kitchen, looked at me, and then there was a look I didn’t recognize at the time. I do now. It was something like, “Thanks. I am tired. I think you understand, and I love you.” And she came over and hugged me. There was a light in her eye and a warmth in my heart. I learned it is a wonderful feeling to turn on the lights in our parents’ eyes.

One blessing that I believe has come from paying tithing is that over the course of my career I never once went for a long time without a job. At one point early in my career I was laid off from my job, and within two weeks I had another job making more than I had at my previous one. During 25 years with one company, I went through many periods when employees were laid off all around me, but I wasn’t. I believe the Lord blessed me for paying tithing.

In our family, we have been immeasurably blessed as two decades ago, a young 16-year-old learned that she was expecting a child. She and the baby’s father were not married, and they could see no way forward together. The young woman believed the life she was carrying was precious. She gave birth to a baby girl and allowed a righteous family to adopt her as their own. For Bryce and Jolinne, she was an answer to their prayers. They named her Emily and taught her to trust in her Heavenly Father and in His Son, Jesus Christ.
Emily grew up. How grateful we are that Emily and our grandson, Christian, fell in love and were married in the house of the Lord. Emily and Christian now have their own little girl.
Emily recently wrote: “Throughout these last nine months of pregnancy, I had time to reflect on the events [of] my own birth. I thought of my birth mother, who was just 16 years old. As I experienced the aches and changes that pregnancy brings, I couldn’t help but imagine how difficult it would have been at the young age of 16. … The tears flow even now as I think of my birth mother, who knew she couldn’t give me the life [she desired for me and unselfishly placed] me for adoption. I can’t fathom what she might have gone through in those nine months—being watched with judging eyes as her body changed, the teen experiences she missed, knowing that at the end of this labor of motherly love, she would place her child into the arms of another. I am so thankful for her selfless choice, that she did not choose to use her agency in a way that would take away my own.” Emily concludes, “I’m so thankful for Heavenly Father’s divine plan, for my incredible parents who [loved and cared for] me, and for temples where we can be sealed to our families for eternity.”

When I was in Barcelona on my mission, my companion and I were walking by our church building when we saw a young woman walking toward us. We felt prompted to talk to her, so we stopped her and asked the woman if she had ever seen our church building before. We learned that her name was Maya (all names have been changed), and I invited her to come to a game night that we were planning with other young adults the following Friday. She accepted.
At the game night, I still remember how Maya and Alicia, a friend of ours who was a recent convert, were laughing together. Alicia was such a good friend to Maya. She asked Maya about her family, her interests, and her religious beliefs and built a friendship with Maya over time. We learned more about Maya’s religious background and her devotion to God, and she also expressed an interest in learning more about how we communicate with God.
Over time, as my companion and I, Alicia, and the rest of the ward got to know Maya and kept inviting her and showing her love, she felt the Spirit of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and decided to be baptized. As we remembered patience and brotherly kindness (see Doctrine and Covenants 4:6), I know that the authentic friendships Maya experienced influenced her decision.

President Thomas S. Monson explained the gift of the Atonement by telling the story of a young boy who wanted to buy a bicycle.
Every year, the police department of a big city held an auction to sell all the lost or stolen bikes that had been found during the year. One year, almost 100 bikes were being sold. As the auctioneer started the auction, he noticed an 11-year-old boy sitting near the front of the room.
“One dollar!” the boy called out as the first bike went up for bid. But the bidding went much higher, and the bike was sold to someone else. “One dollar,” the boy repeated hopefully each time a bike came up. But each bike was sold for much more money than the boy had. The auctioneer watched as the boy tried over and over to buy a bike.
Finally, just one bike was left. The bidding went to eight dollars. Suddenly the auctioneer spoke up. “Sold to that boy over there for nine dollars!” he said. He took eight dollars from his own pocket and asked the boy for his one dollar.
The boy gave the auctioneer his dollar’s worth of pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters. He took his new bike and started to leave. Then he parked his bike, gratefully threw his arms around the auctioneer’s neck, and cried.

One day I went to the dentist because I had a toothache. The dentist said I needed a root canal. I was half scared to get it, but half excited too, because I wanted the pain to go away. I told my mom I wanted a priesthood blessing so I would feel comforted. My dad was out of town so I asked if my two uncles could give me a blessing. The night before I had to go back to the dentist, they came over and gave me a blessing. After they left I told my mom, “I feel comforted already.” The next day I felt really comfortable during the root canal. I’m glad that the Holy Ghost inspired me to ask for a blessing.Madeline Anne G., age 8, Utah

Photograph courtesy of Women’s cougar rugby (BYU)
When my rugby coach told our team that our quarterfinal game in the national championship tournament was scheduled for a Sunday, all I could think was, “Why now?”
My team, the 2010 Brigham Young University women’s rugby team, had been preparing for the championship all season. We were looking forward to playing the team that had defeated us in the tournament the year before. I was confident we could win—we had some of the best players in the nation. We wanted to prove ourselves to the rugby world by winning a national championship, but it turned out that Heavenly Father had a different path for us.
Tournament officials had assured us that our games would be scheduled on Friday and Saturday, but because of a mistake, the games were instead set for Saturday and Sunday. We did not find out about the mistake until five days before the tournament, which was being held in Sanford, Florida, USA. Since women’s rugby was not an official BYU team at the time, the decision of whether to play or not was ours to make. We chose not to. It was a unanimous decision, and no one complained.
Playing on Sunday was not even an option. For me, it never had been. My parents taught me to keep the Sabbath day holy, and I honored that commandment my whole life. Obeying Heavenly Father’s commandments was more important than a rugby game.
But knowing that we were doing the right thing did not make it any easier. We were disheartened as we flew to Florida knowing that whether we won or lost, Saturday would be our last game.
After arriving in Florida, we received a call from a New York Times reporter who wanted to cover our story. We were stunned. We never expected anyone to care about our choice to honor the Sabbath, much less a national newspaper.
On Friday, at the time we would have been playing if the scheduling mistake hadn’t happened, we went to the Orlando Florida Temple to do baptisms for the dead. After we performed the ordinances, the temple president spoke to us. He pulled out an article that had been written about us and read some of the comments readers had posted online supporting our decision.
Later our coach read us more comments he had received. Latter-day Saints and others thanked us for our example and told us that it was refreshing to see people sticking to their standards. Their words lifted our spirits. That is when we began to realize the impact that we could have even without becoming national champions.
I knew that Heavenly Father was aware of us, but I never thought anyone else was watching. The response to our decision gave us a new purpose for being in Florida: we weren’t there to win, but to stick up for our standards.
Saturday came, and we won our game 46 to 7. Afterward we walked up to the officials and told them we forfeited the game we were scheduled to play on Sunday—which happened to be against the team that defeated us the year before. I was disappointed that our season ended this way. I wish we could have played this team, but I don’t wish we played them, or anyone, on the Sabbath.
Dozens of articles were written about us, and we continued to get supportive letters and emails. By sticking up for our standards, we reached more people than we ever could have if we had won the championship.
I have learned to trust Heavenly Father to lead me to a better path than I have in mind for myself. My team wanted to prove ourselves by becoming champions, but now I realize that Heavenly Father wanted us to make a different point entirely. He led us to the opportunity to be examples when we thought no one was watching, and He was able to use us for good because we chose to obey.

With Danielle and Michelle Hancock of the Lakeside First Ward, Show Low Arizona Stake, you might think you’re seeing double since they are identical twins, but the sisters are ace spellers trading off taking first and second in their district competition for the past three years.
In the past, Michelle won the county spelling bee and went on to win the Arizona State Spelling Bee. She represented the state in the national contest.
This year, Danielle won the county spelling bee and went on to the state competition. She took second place but only after setting a state record for spelling bee rounds. She participated in 82 rounds with the final 61 rounds just between her and the eventual state champ.
Both girls are honor students, and both were awarded All Sports Awards from their schools for making all the sports teams this past year.

As humanitarian missionaries we are constantly looking for ways to apply resources in an attempt to solve basic problems in our area. And just like the proselytizing missionaries, who are guided by the Spirit to those who are searching for the truth, we too spend time on our knees in prayer as we seek the Lord’s guidance for our own work.
Recently, we felt directed to the Association for the Physically Disabled of Kenya (APDK), a rehabilitation clinic, where we discussed their needs for clean water. We had heard that they were experiencing difficulties and had been forced to obtain their water supply in 20-liter bottles (as most of the communities do here). They were sourcing from a neighboring hospital where a sufficient supply was not always available.
We developed and received approval from LDS Area Authorities to pursue the project. We arranged for a hydrologist to survey the APDK property, but his report came back with a prediction of only a fair outcome. After reading the report, both of us talked about it and, because we believed the possibility of success was marginal, agreed to stop the project from any further development.
After making this decision, we met with Leah Mwachari, the APDK administrator—along with our LDS site monitor, Brother Kenneth Malahilu—to inform her that we would not proceed. But as soon as Elder Jensen announced our decision to her, Brother Malahilu spoke up boldly and reminded us all that in the Old Testament, “Moses struck a rock and the Lord brought forth water. The Lord loved the children of Israel as much as He loves His children here in Kenya, and He will do the same for us here.” Kenneth then bore his testimony to the three of us about the need to have faith, and when he finished, no one stirred for quite a while. The Spirit was intense. We then looked at each other and, smiling, both of us said, “I guess we will be drilling for water.”
A few months passed before the hospital came up with their financial contribution, simply because Leah had a challenging time convincing her boss to sign over any funds. They were apprehensive because of some past failures with boreholes on their land.
Nevertheless, the financial issues were eventually sorted out and the project was soon underway. And Kenneth’s testimony to us earlier would prove prophetic in a couple of ways. Good, clean water was struck at 45 meters, instead of at the depth of 60 meters, which the surveyor had indicated in his report. Secondly, the contract with the driller was arranged for a 10-inch borehole, which the hydrologist estimated was sufficiently sized to fill the expected 10,000-liter tank in about 8 hours. But on his own, this driller put in a 16-inch borehole which substantially increased the output flow.
As the project reached its completion, we held a closing ceremony with the people at APDK to formally turn over the project to them. At that time, we were told that this borehole was the seventh drilling at APDK—none prior had succeeded in giving them water. We thought about Kenneth—and his profound faith—and realized just how the Lord can bring forth water from a rock and bless His children. We felt the sweetness of the Spirit, and Elder Jensen—who sensed a strong prompting—asked if he might bless the borehole. Leah quietly nodded her permission and Elder Jensen offered up sacred words.
The borehole has now been operating for over six months and is still filling the 10,000-liter tank, plus a 60,000-liter tank, in an 8-hour day—three times what the hydrologist expected. And today the people at APDK are still enjoying clean water to drink and with which to clean, garden, and use in the fabrication of their casts, splints, and treatments.